


i wonder, is this loving?

by starrwatcherr



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Sex, Love Confessions, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrwatcherr/pseuds/starrwatcherr
Summary: “Love? Is this loving babe?” Faye questions breathlessly, both to herself and him. It catches Lukas by surprise. Not the question itself but the thing she attaches at the end of it.
Relationships: Efi | Faye/Lukas
Kudos: 4





	i wonder, is this loving?

**Author's Note:**

> narc by interpol n fayelukas got me fuckt. i hc that ram at some point becomes rosanne around the time of awakening--its a great excuse to use my 5 years of crappy french study and also... firewood.  
> i'm @starrwatcherr on twitter.

“Love?” Faye questions both to herself and him. Her voice is breathless, low, on the edge of her tongue “Is this loving babe?”

It catches Lukas by surprise. Not the question itself but the thing she attaches at the end of it. 

_Babe_. Short for baby. A pet name, sweet nothing, term of endearment; something she’s always steered quite clear from. Personally, he adores them. Like a secret between the two of them. On the battlefield she is Faye, the belle of Ram, but in his arms she is his wildflower, his sweetheart, darling, lover— _mon chére,_ when he is really into it.

But he is always Lukas to her. Perhaps Ginger Stud if she’s playful, but that is a rare occasion when she’s teasing him, testing limits, edging. Ever since she heard it from Python, she never let go of it, tucking it into her back pocket to pull out, like an ace.  In fact, when he first called her “lover”, a perfectly normal and dear name in his mind, she’d become so cute and flustered. Her face turned completely red, hands flying up to hide her fiery cheeks, her big brown eyes looking elsewhere than him and a short “ _I can’t believe this_ ” stumbled from her swollen lips. 

Now, _he_ is the flustered one. He is her baby, her sweetheart, darling, lover. Perhaps even, if he is enough for her someday, her _chére_.  He longs to be that. Aches to be it. Craves to be the one she thinks of in the morning, and falls asleep to at night. Her dear. 

But is he worthy enough to love her? Such a pure, sensitive girl, one whose heart has been shattered into a dozen pieces with all the love it’s held in her short lifetime. She’d said that to him the first time they... made love? That’s too tender a word for what he asked for. Fucked?

_ Teach me how to love. Prove that it is real, not just a fairytale.  _ He remembers begging her for her knowledge after they'd run off to find firewood and spent such time basking in emotions and burning daylight. He begged for her  expertise in this unexplored reality: a power change, and one he quite enjoys.  


Faye looks at him expectantly, her fingers playing with the edge of his hair. She’s on top of his lap, straddling him as though he is the horse she rides into battle. _"The best use for a chair,"_ she had jokingly said before pushing him into it, dark eyes heavy with lust. Her hands linger around his neck, along the side and to the nape with a cold touch. 

“Lukas?”

He struggles to find his voice. “Yes?”

“I asked you if this is loving?” She is tactless, a person of action before a poetess. She’s always left the lovely phrases to him, saying they sound better on his tongue, from his lips, in his voice. 

“I still am unsure.” Lukas says softly, watching as a hand moves from his neck to rake through her straw-coloured hair. It falls in pretty waves over her shoulders and to her bare waist, where he hand rests. Usually he has all the answers: to the villagers, to Clive and Forsyth and Python, to Mathilda and Clair and Alm. But to Faye he is lost, clueless, in the utter dark.

Secretly, he enjoys it. 

He trembles a little when she brings her face close to his. He expects her lips to meet his, to kiss him hard and shatter his thoughts like glass as she always does. But what she does instead is just as mesmerizing. She presses her forehead against his, bringing herself so close that their bodies curve together and the chair beneath them creaks loudly.  He’d hate to break it, but he wouldn’t mind breaking it if it was done in a moment of passion. Besides, this is just some deathly abode of a witch, where he had almost died hours before. Lukas had come to death without even touching her this time, scaring him instead of exciting him. 

He must be careful with the sweet nothings he uses in the future. 

Moonlight seeps through the open windows, barely grazing the two of them with the bright light. The edge of their bodies are caught in it's gleam turning tanned skin pale as the moon above and sparing their faces from being blinded.  She holds him tight, her nails making marks in against his skin. She smells of earth and dirt, of blood and ash; but underneath the stench of death is the smell of flowers and sweetness and springtime.

_Perhaps this is love._ He thinks. _Or her own form of it._

She is not apt with words, mustering sentences of bloodying the enemy in his name or dominating him until he croaks out that she is his goddess, the one he serves and thinks of with every passing moment. Such thoughts make his blood heat, rushing to his cheeks. He’s blushing.

Faye presses her lips to his gingerly, her hands moving up to latch into his scalp. He thinks about how she’s been avoiding the word love for ages; sweet nothings that he whispers to her when they cook; a passionate glance and a wink if he is daring when they train; how she never once took this romance seriously. And strangely, now she does: straddling him, moving away the collar of his uniform to make a mark upon his neck, claiming him as hers. Faye's hands trail along his war-scarred body and soul, cold to the touch against his warm skin.  


“We’ll make promises.” She whispers into his neck. He is unsure if she is talking to him or herself. “Though love is hard and sex is easy.”

Promises. And love and sex. 

He feels entangled in a web with her. These promises and lies of a romantic and sexual education. His noble background and her common status. The war itself. The fact that they are soldiers, and everyday is a battle. And in battle, either may die. And most importantly that war brings revolution; and love is not what revolution is for.

He grows nervous, the tightness in his pants loosening and his heart thudding faster. With such words, he crumbles into her neck, weak at her touch. How funny. He is a knight of Zofia, a man of iron-clad determination and strength and endurance (which he prides himself on), and yet, a  few words of endearment and kindness and he melts like spun sugar in the rain.

Faye takes his face in her hands, tilting his gaze to meet hers. Her lips part for a second, her eyes flickering between his lips and eyes. “Tell me,” She whispers softly, her voice above a whine. Her breath his warm against his face and sweet like wine. “ _m_ _a chére_.”

Goddess above can he be her darling? Is he worthy to be that?

“It’s loving, babe.” He promises her before asking her to kiss him again and reaching to run a hand through her hair. Her locks slip through his fingers, as does his clarity of just what they are.


End file.
